


Another One Bites The Dust

by ohmcgee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale is bad at girls, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, lightweight!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the prompt: you deserve a happy ending</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another One Bites The Dust

After Derek’s most recent love connection tries to possess him and use his body to kill his friends, even Stiles takes pity on him. 

“It’s really not a stumper, Derek, stop looking so constipated. Food. People eat it sometimes. Oh god, please tell me you eat more than like, harmless little bunnies and poor little chubby-cheeked squirrels.” Stiles is beginning to look sick. 

Derek, however, is still eyeing him the way he looks at Scott when Scott says, “I have a plan!” Like he’s waiting for the catch -- the catch being they’re all about to die because Scott has terrible plans that usually almost get them dead. 

“I eat.” Derek says finally. “Food. Authentic Mexican is my favorite, actually.”

“Awesome. I know a place. They have this white cheese dip--”

Derek’s still just standing there, emoting at him with his thick, dark, bushy eyebrows. “I still don’t understand.”

Stiles sighs. “Look. This was like, the fourth girlfriend that tried to kill you? I’m trying to be nice. You remember nice, right? It’s the opposite of trying to kill you.”

Derek looks like he wants to growl at him. “Yes, but why are _you_ doing it? You hate me.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and closes it. “Fair enough, but I mean, come on. You’re not exactly a little ball of sunshine all the time. You do things, and make very bad decisions, like _turning unsuspecting teenagers into werewolves_ , and you’re always shoving me into walls, but I don’t hate you, okay? And I don’t know, we just had to kill your girlfriend, so maybe I’m feeling charitable.”

Derek’s jaw clench is very visible. “For the eleventh time, she wasn’t my girlfriend. I barely knew her. And I don’t need your charity.”

“That’s even worse. What is it with you and girls, dude? You’re like a psycho magnet.” Derek’s giving him that face now; the one that says get to the point soon or there will be more wall slamming, and something tells Stiles it won’t be the confusing kind of wall slamming that leaves him sort of fuzzy in the head after and not just because he’s got a mild concussion. “So are we going to go or do you just want to stand there and give me angry eyebrows all night?”

Derek sighs, a heavy, arduous sigh that if translated would roughly translate to _do I have a choice?_ But Stiles is being nice and really all he’s going to do is stay home and sulk all night about what it is about him that makes women become murderous. Plus he’s really trying to cut back on the sulking. It’s giving him wrinkles. "Will there be booze?”

Stiles grins. “Will there be booze?” He laughs mockingly, looking shifty. “Pffth. Booze. Of _course_ there will be--”

Derek sighs. Again. “Your Dad took your fake I.D. away again, didn’t he?”

Stiles deflates. “I left it in my pocket and let’s just say after a round in the washing machine I didn’t look like the guy in the picture anymore. Because there was no picture. I ought to get my money back. Cheap craftsmanship.”

“Right,” Derek says, not even trying to feign interest. 

“Right! Good." Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet. Derek doesn't understand how he _lives_ like that. It making Derek anxious just being around him. "Okay. Ready?”

Derek glares.

“Right. Let’s go then.”

At least the eyebrow has retreated.

* * *

Ninety-nine percent of the night is, unsurprisingly, comprised of arguing. First they fought about whose car to take. _Will your Jeep even make it? How dare you insult my baby!_ Then they fought about which restaurant to eat at. Then while they ate, about whose food looked better, about whether Scott and Kira should be dating, over the proper pronunciation of chilaquiles -- if it could be spoken of in words, they argued over it.

When they leave the restaurant they argue over which bar to go to, but only until Derek remembers he’s the only one with a legit I.D. and that Stiles has absolutely no power in this decision. He looks smugger than smug about it, too. Stiles is slightly impressed. 

Derek ends up taking them to some hole in the wall place in the middle of nowhere, which Stiles would probably be complaining about it if it weren’t for the fact that after Derek leaned in to say something to the bartender, he’s getting served, no questions asked. Derek must be a regular or something, which is a thought Stiles files away for another day, because seriously, broody and eyebrow-y Derek Hale being a _regular_ at a _bar_ is just too bizarre to think about right now. 

Thinky thoughts later, Stiles tells himself. Beer and pointing his finger in Derek’s general direction while he rambles drunkenly _now._

* * *

“All right. Urph. That was your elbow. In my spleen, I think. God you’re bony.”

“Pfffth, you’ll heal,” Stiles trips over his own foot again and giggles against Derek’s shoulder while Derek tries unlocking the door. “Cause you’re a werewooooooooolf.”

“You’re howling in my ear.”

“My bad,” Stiles slurs, falling forward when Derek pushes the door open. 

Derek helps him across the room to the couch. “I’m going to drop you now.” He says, giving Stiles a short warning before he drops him unceremoniously on Derek's lumpy brown couch. 

“Ten-four, Captain.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Derek mutters.

“Your face doesn’t make any sense,” Stiles mumbles into the upholstery

Maybe its the alcohol or the exhaustion or maybe its the fact that Stiles Stilinski is the biggest lightweight he’s ever seen in his life, but Derek -- Derek Hale of the brooding forehead and raised eyebrows and serious manpain -- laughs. It just bubbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. It feels strange and foreign and nice. Stiles even lifts his rubbery neck off the couch cushion to stare at him with his great big brown eyes like Derek has a chain of daisies draped upon his head. 

Derek clears his throat and breaks the super uncomfortable eye contact. “I shouldn’t have let you drink that much. You obviously can’t hold your liquor.”

“Beer,” Stiles corrects him and there it is again -- a laugh. A short, clipped off noise, but a laugh all the same. 

“That’s even worse.”

Stiles rolls onto his side and stares up at Derek like a puppy dog, head cocked to one side, eyebrows knit together like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Do that again.”

“What?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“The laughing thing. You should do it again. You never do the thing.”

“I do the thing,” Derek says stubbornly. Then, feeling utterly ridiculous, corrects himself. “I laugh. Just because you don't --”

“Liar liar pants on fire,” Stiles sing-songs. “Admit it, I got you to do the thing.” 

Derek’s head falls into his hands. “What are the chances of you passing out anytime soon?”

“Slim to none,” Stiles grins. “Second wind, whoooo boy. So what I was saying was…” Stiles’ thoughts trail off as he tries to remember what exactly it was he was trying to say. Beer is good for having fun and loosening up tightass werewolves so _they_ can have fun for once. Not so good for the having of thoughts and trying to communicate them though. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. “You’re babbling.” 

“Oh.” Stiles says, drooling a little on the cushion. Apparently he said most of that out loud. His bad.

“Look, it’s late and there’s no way I’m taking you home like this. Your Dad is actually scary. So you can stay.”

“Fhnnh.”

“Right,” Derek says. Stiles is curled up in the fetal position, drooling on his hand. Derek grabs a blanket from the back of a nearby chair and throws it over him haphazardly. 

“m’feet are cold,” Stiles mumbles, eyes closed, toes wiggling.

Derek can't believe what is happening in his loft right now. Sighing, he pulls the blanket down over Stiles’ feet and turns to go to bed.

He only gets a few steps away before something tugs at him and he walks back over, staring down at the semi-unconscious boy on his couch. 

“Hey Stiles?” He asks, to check if he’s still awake. He’s about to give up when Stiles finally stirs and mutters a sleepy, “Mm?”

“Why did you really want to go out with me tonight?”

Stiles stirs a bit more, pulling the blanket up to his chin and looks up at Derek. He shrugs. “I dunno. You deserve it, I guess.” he murmurs, pulling his knees up to get comfortable. “A good time. A happy ending, for once.”

“Okay,” Derek says, not knowing exactly what to say to that. Besides, it’s not like Stiles will remember any of this in the morning. “Good night.”

“Hey Derek,” Stiles calls after him before he gets too far. 

“Yeah?”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have a good time?”

“Well,” Derek says thoughtfully. “You didn’t try to poison me or possess me or set me on fire. So yeah, I think maybe I did.”

“Maybe we should, y’know, do it again. Sometime.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He’s never felt so awkward standing in his own loft before. “Maybe.”

Stiles makes some sleepy noises and rolls onto his other side. “G’night.”

The blanket Derek had given him just isn’t quite big enough to cover all those gangly limbs of his. Plus Stiles' feet are sticking out again and the heating in the loft isn’t that great, so Derek goes and grabs another blanket out of his closet and throws it over him, making sure it covers his feet this time. 

“Good night, Stiles.”


End file.
